


Any Substitute for Love

by HotPriest



Category: Fleabag (TV)
Genre: Catharsis, Gen, Light Angst, Moving On, Not A Fix-It, Post-Canon, ermmm, honestly i dont know how to tag it, sorry - Freeform, terrible summary, unless i choose to continue it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-07
Updated: 2020-08-07
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:07:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25765699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HotPriest/pseuds/HotPriest
Summary: Fleabag's thoughts following the events of season two of Fleabag and how she has coped after the Priest's departure from her life.
Relationships: Fleabag/Priest (Fleabag)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 25





	Any Substitute for Love

**Author's Note:**

> When I write I generally don’t share it, but I always find it quite cathartic and thought that someone else may find similar catharsis in what I’ve written. Or at least get some entertainment (even if it’s only because of my poor writing). Please enjoy. And apologies in advance for my style. May or may not be continued depending on how I feel about it. 
> 
> Let me know what you think. 
> 
> No beta, no editing. Just me pouring my heart out on a page.

There’s something that he’d said the last time I’d seen him.

_‘I love you.’_

_‘It’ll pass.’_

It’s the type of poetic bullshit one would expect out of a fairytale rom-com about four fifths of the way through the film. One where the love interest _really_ tragically leaves the protagonist behind in a grand self-sacrificing gesture (a mistake, really) but inevitably comes back with the birds singing and the sun shining up their arsehole.

But this isn’t a fairytale. 

It’s a love story.

There has been no coming back from that night, no resolution tied up in a neat little bow. But I’ve lived for long enough to not expect it and not be disappointed when it doesn’t come.

My life following what had happened with the Priest is mostly uneventful- or at least I’ve had to pretend that it is. As it turns out being in such a deep relationship with someone you can’t talk about for the sake of their reputation if _anyone_ else ever finds out about what they’ve done puts a _real_ damper on one’s mental health. Sometimes it just isn’t enough that your older sister knows about your tragic love life, and besides. She has her fiance- yes her now fiance- and who are you to go sprinkling your misfortune around on her happiness?

But then the single most amazing thing happens. Weeks pass, and eventually weeks turn to months, and months to years. Two years to be more or less precise. Funny how time works. And in that time I’ve come to find out that in a way the Priest had been right.

Something has passed between us, yes. The heartache and yearning we felt sitting on that bus stop bench, waiting for the bus that would never come (there’s a joke in here somewhere about how that bus actually represented our budding yet doomed relationship, but anyway), eventually passed. The deliberate and purposeful avoidance of all the places we’d once been to together as well as the evasion of any place I might even have the _slightest_ chance of bumping into him. The painful, selfish bit of it all? Yeah, that pretty much all passed.

But the one thing that has not passed is the love. When you love someone, _really_ love someone, I don’t think it’s something that just _goes away._ It’s something I learned about with my mum and then with Boo. Even if they do something really horrible, really unforgivable, there’s a small part of you that holds onto the piece of their heart they gave to you- or you took from them. You remember and see them in even tin of G&T from M&S, you give a knowing smile to every fox on the prowl, and you linger a little too long outside that one church you happen to pass when everyone is leaving, wondering if you’ll see him, and not being able to help that sinking feeling in your heart when you don’t. 

There’s a saying that I’ve heard somewhere, not that I remember where from. But it goes something like this, “if there is any substitute for love, it is memory”. And whether or not memory _is_ love, the single effort to remember someone as you left them, or even the fact that you’ve dedicated some bit of your mind to their image forever isn’t what’s up for debate here, because I think the answer is quite obvious. There’s some sort of intensely strong feeling for that person forever, and you move through life collecting memories, and therefore love.

The next year after my father’s wedding, no real memories are collected. Not for me at least, no matter how hard I try. The cafe thrives as chatty Wednesdays prove to be a hit, Claire and Klare are disgustingly happy and are expecting a child (who I said they should name Klaire. Claire hits me), and even step mother and my father seem…. content. It’s in that really strange way where it compels everyone around them to simply make-do and accept their happiness, but it’s fine. It really is just fine.

The following year (I did say two years, I swear I can count and this has added up correctly), I finally start dating again. There’s nothing real in the few relationships I have, but even being able to put myself out there is a huge step forward for me. It’s not to say I don’t appreciate the people I put myself out there with but there’s not really the same connection there had been with the Priest. In a lot of ways I do think it had been a one-in-a-lifetime connection, anyway. I don’t think it’s a bad thing. But I still miss him and haven’t even tried to make contact since that fateful night. It would be too painful for me, and too unfair for him.

When I next see the Priest I don’t realise that he actually sees me before I see him. I’ve stopped that whole childish thing where I avoid the places I might run into him (which included every grocery store in a five mile radius from his flat which was _extremely_ inconvenient as we actually live somewhat closeby) and that had turned out just fine for me for awhile. Maybe it’s his paranoia over constantly being watched by foxes and my terrible, self absorbed, narrow worldview that I don’t see him and he sees me, but it’s just as much up to him to make the connection and he didn’t say anything.

So we part ways once again as I step onto the bus across the street from him, only noticing him once I’m walking towards the back of the bus, recognising that sad slump in his shoulders and the way it looks like he hasn’t had a proper night’s sleep in a week. We catch each other’s eye and for a moment my heart stops. The guilt in his expression is undeniable and too painful to look at.

He turns away first.

Damn bus stops.

**Author's Note:**

> "If there is any substitute for love, it is memory" is a quote by Joseph Brodsky, and the full quote actually says, "If there is any substitute for love, it is memory. To memorize, then, is to restore intimacy."
> 
> I just saw this quote that thought it was incredibly apt for Priest and Fleabag.


End file.
